Free A Summer in the Country by Marcia Willett Page A

settled herself comfortably. “I’ve got a rather nice malt whisky with me. Darling Harry always makes sure I’m looked after. Poor Barbara suffers agonies of embarrassment taking the empties to the bottle bank. So tell me about Jemima. What’s she up to?”
    The two women bent closer over the teacups, heads together.

CHAPTER 7
    Louise, coming back to collect some belongings from the car, thought that there was an almost sinister air about diem as they huddled together.
    She thought: You’re imagining things again. Seeing shadows …
    The card was behind die door: a big square of white, pushed into the corner when she’d thrust the door open earlier. She left it lying there and went to dump her bags in the living room, emptying flasks, putting uneaten fruit away, taking off her walking hoots, before going back into the small hall. The envelope had been delivered by hand with just the name “Louise Parry” written on it; no address, no stamp. She stood staring down at it, every instinct alert and warning her against picking it up and opening it.
    â€œWill Daddy be at my party?” “No, darling. He’s a long way away. He’s left a present for you, though.” “I’d rather Daddy was here
.”
    She opened her eyes and allowed her tightly clenched fingers to stretch, relax, to pick up the card. Putting it on the table she filled the ketde and switched it on, forcing her mind to other things: supper with Jemima tomorrow, a day at Bigbury and lunch on Burgh Island… but the formula was no longer working. Her defence mechanism was faulty and the past was pressing in; she held it away desperately. Singing to herself—learning the words of songs, of poetry, was another protection against memories—she made tea, fetched milk, opened the window. Putting the mug of tea at the end of the big, square table, she sat down and pulled her notebook and tiny paintbox towards her, intent on bringing her diary up to date. The distant music of the West Dart drifted up to her, mingling with the lazy cooing of the doves in the courtyard, but today this quiet peacefulness was full of danger. Her attention was caught by the bright white square, lying just beyond reach, and she picked up her mug hastily, concentrating on the things that she had seen on her walk: hawthorn blossom and cuckoopint in the springtime beauty of Hembury woods; house martins wheeling and circling above her head whilst she was having coffee at the Forge Caf6 in Holne; a peacock butterfly warming itself on a mossy stone at Dean Ford. She wrote quickly, making the tiny sketches, painting in the delicate hues. The voices were quite quiet, barely audible, murmuring quietly together.
    â€œCan I do painting like Mummy? ” “I should stick with the crayons. Less messy.” “I could be very careful.” “Tell you what. Let’s do this one together first and then we’ll see
…”
    Louise rinsed her paintbrush carefully and laid it down. Her face bleak, mouth grimly compressed, she reached for the card. It was not just a card, it was too bulky, and with a sense of dread she slit the envelope and drew out its contents. A card first: a clever cartoon of a Newfoundland, ears pricked, staring through the window of what was clearly Brigid’s lean-to, beyond which a car waited. All his anxiety and suspense informed the animal’s tense posture, yet there was something comic about the scene.
    â€œThanks so much,” Thea had written inside. “Do please come and have tea with us. Would you like to have a word with Brigid about it? We should love to see you again.”
    Louise stared at the cartoon, something familiar about the style focusing her attention. Presently she picked up the folded sheet of paper and opened it out. The tide “Oscar” was printed carefully, though in an uneven hand, the letter S a great deal taller than the O. The dog-shape had been